


Be My Valentine

by bironic



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Episode Related, Holiday, Kissing, M/M, Mistletoe, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-02-14
Updated: 2007-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-06 09:18:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/52093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bironic/pseuds/bironic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which it is neither Christmas nor Valentine's Day, but House still manages to steal a kiss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Be My Valentine

**Author's Note:**

> Follows "Insensitive" and refers to a character who appeared in "Needle in a Haystack."
> 
> A belated birthday/holiday/thank-you gift for fallen_arazil, who asked for: "Mistletoe fic! I don't care if House is using it to annoy people, Wilson's using it to get lucky, or Cameron is using it to try to play matchmaker, so long as it's mistletoe!" (Yeah, _that's_ how belated.)

House and Wilson sat at a booth in the diner by the hospital beneath an array of pink, white and red paper decorations, finishing up an otherwise pleasant breakfast laid out on pink, white and red doilies. House considered complementing the décor with pink, white and red vomit, except then he probably wouldn't get what he wanted out of the man sitting across the table from him, and that was unacceptable.

"—gonna go home for a couple of hours and get some sleep," Wilson was saying around the final bite of his omelette. "You okay getting back?"

"Yeah." House liberated the last piece of bacon from the plate between them and studied the collection of Cupids and hearts dangling overhead as he chewed. "Is anyone actually turned on by smirking babies with naked butts?"

"Just be grateful it isn't St. Patrick's Day; your French toast and my eggs would've been green." Wilson leaned back, sipping his decaf.

House took a split-second account of him. Full, relaxed, tired, amused; defenses low, spirits high. Time to move. He slid out of his seat, swung around the edge of the table and made himself at home on Wilson's bench, trapping Wilson between him and the window ledge.

Wilson's eyebrows drew together as he put down his coffee. "What are you—?"

House produced the bit of sad, dried shrubbery he'd retrieved from his coat pocket on his way over, its leaves curled and chipped, its berries pale and shriveled.

Wilson squinted, his gaze following the gnarled sprig as House lifted it above their heads. "Is that—mistletoe? Is that the _same_ mistletoe you had at Christmas?"

"I saved it for remembrance."

"That's rosemary."

"Don't be contrary, you'll ruin the mood." House batted his eyelashes. "Jimmy, will you be my Valentine?"

Wilson snorted. "Valentine's Day was yesterday."

House added a bit of a whine to his voice. "But I didn't get to kiss you."

"Two kisses in front of your staff in December weren't enough? And half my dinner last night?"

"Reluctant today, aren't we? You want me to woo you with poetry first? All right, we'll do it your way." He cleared his throat and began to recite loudly enough to turn heads, "Roses are red, your balls are blue—"

"House!" Wilson hissed, scanning the room for disgruntled patrons, though his lips pursed with a suppressed smile.

"Want to shut me up?"

"Yes," he replied, obviously without having thought it through, because when House lowered his arm and leaned in, Wilson arched backwards. "I mean, no! Shouldn't you be doing this with—with—I don't know, Cameron?"

"I was going to use it on Cuddy and the she-devil on wheels who wants to jump her, but I got distracted." As if to demonstrate his short attention span, he tilted his head and swiped the flat of his tongue across Wilson's lips.

Wilson recoiled with a sound of amused disgust, putting a hand on House's chest to keep him at bay. "Julie."

"Well, no wonder your marriages keep tanking. You'd think by now you'd've learned to say the right name when you're making out with someone."

When he finished wiping his mouth with a napkin, Wilson clarified, "The 'she-devil.' Her name is Julie. And we aren't making out."

"Oh my God. You're right." Dropping the mistletoe onto the table, he took hold of Wilson's head with both hands and promptly remedied the situation.

Not even House's palms over his ears, House's thumbs tracing his cheekbones and House's mouth pressing, nibbling and plucking at his lips could stop Wilson from trying to protest; between quick, moist smooches, he managed to get out, "We—can't just—kiss in puh—_mmph_—publ—"

But he never finished, because on the "l" House caught the tip of Wilson's tongue between his teeth and sucked it into his mouth. Predictably, Wilson gave up, shoulders slumping, complaints subsiding into wordless murmurs, and started kissing him back, his fingers flexing over House's heart. Soon House was happily exploring a hot, wet, onion- and coffee-flavored wonderland of tongue and teeth and gums and palate and lips.

By the time House deigned to let go, they were both slightly short of breath. Wilson sat back against the window sill and licked his lips, which were visibly sticky with maple syrup from House's breakfast. "You taste sweet," Wilson said, a smile tugging at the left side of his mouth.

Enjoying the bitter aftertaste of coffee and Wilson, House matched his half-smile. "You say that to all the girls."

"Only the ones I like."

"You like everyone."

"Some more than others." Wilson rubbed his tongue at a stubborn spot on the skin below his lower lip.

"Want me to take care of that for you?" House asked, nodding at Wilson's mouth.

"Thanks, but I think we've treated everyone here to enough of a show."

House feigned surprise. "Dirty mind. I was only going to play Jewish Mommy and wipe your mouth with a napkin dipped in your water glass."

Wilson was supposed to roll his eyes at that, but instead his focus shifted to a point over House's left shoulder. Turning his head, House saw their twenty-something waitress approaching.

"Can I get you two anything else?" she asked.

"Know of any nearby motels?" House asked, at the same time Wilson said, "Just the check, please."

Wilson glared at him through a slight blush that hardly registered against the waitress's. "Just the check," he repeated. "Thanks."

"Sure." She scribbled the tax and total, then tore the bill off the pad and placed it face-down on the table without looking at either of them. "Have a nice day."

"You bet we will," said House. Then, when she'd walked far enough away that he could justify shouting, he added, "You'd think he'd be exhausted after our Valentine's night marathon, but the man's insatiable."

"Time to go, House," Wilson declared, standing. "I would like to be able to eat here again."

House shuffled over obligingly—they hadn't decided who'd be paying yet, after all—and got up, putting his coat on and then holding Wilson's coat open for him. Wilson squinted and turned his head to the side at the gesture before turning to slip his arms into the sleeves. Then he figured it out, lifted his gaze to the ceiling and reached for his wallet.

House swiped the mistletoe back while Wilson counted bills. At Wilson's confused look, he explained, "I'm saving it. Never know the next time it'll come in handy." He continued over Wilson's sigh as they started for the door: "One of us can be Irish on St. Patrick's Day, for instance, and Easter's all about fertility. There's lots of kissing at Purim. And we'll need something to commemorate on Memorial Day..."

They stepped out into the bright, snowy morning.


End file.
